White Wolf, Black Tower
by LeftToBurn
Summary: While hunting a werewolf, Geralt finds himself transported through time and space to Tar Valon. Will he seek to return to his old world - or fight to defend the new? Post AMoL.
1. The Witcher

There was nothing special about this village. It was a small, sleepy settlement somewhere west of Attre. The year had been dry, and so the roads were dusty, people moved sluggishly, and a haze of weariness hung about the air.

In a yard of a hut at the edge of the village, two boys took turns climbing and jumping from a bare-leafed tree. One clambered up, as sure-footed as a cat, and shaded his eyes with a dusty hand. His eyes focused on something in the distance. Down below, his playmate impatiently yelled for him to jump.

"Hurry up Sammy, what you dawdlin' for?"

Sammy pointed. "There's a man! Someone's coming!" He leaped down, stumbling in his excitement, and ran toward the hut. He called through a window.

"Ma! Look ma! A stranger!"

The other boy, who was now perched up the tree, shouted down, "He's on a horse! Think it might be a postman? Or tinker?"

The woman came out, brushing her floured hands on her apron. She squinted down the road and frowned. "No, Ron. Look, he's carrying two swords. 'Tis the witcher. Go tell the men. Quickly now!"

By the time the witcher arrived, the villagers had gathered around the village center. Men spoke quietly to each other, their eyes darting quickly to and from the stranger. Children peeked curiously around the women's aprons. The women quieted the children while exchanging fearful, yet hopeful glances.

One of the men stepped forward. The village was too small for a governor or mayor – but this man was well-regarded for his honesty, fair judgment, and hard work. He had his neighbors' trust, and it was he who had sent for the witcher. "Welcome to the humble village of Caledon, witcher. I presume you're here to handle our request?"

The witcher nodded, and dismounted his horse. "Heard you got a werewolf bothering you," he said.

"You heard rightly, good sir," said the man. "My name's Owen Stewart. I got a farm and do a little blacksmithing on the side. My brother Ricky – Richard – was killed three months ago by the werewolf. And this here is my neighbor, Maria. She's our seamstress. Her husband was also- "

"I am sorry for your losses," the witcher interrupted gently. "But let me tend to my horse. Then we talk."

Owen flushed. "Oh yes, of course sir. My apologies, we do not get many travelers, the inn is right this way- "

The witcher glanced around casually as he led his horse across the village center. His strange, golden eyes only glanced briefly at each person, but Sammy got the feeling that those eyes absorbed every detail. He clutched for his mother's skirt, but then let go as he saw Ron sneer at him. As the witcher disappeared from view, the villagers visibly relaxed. Two young maidens twittered excitedly.

"Did you see that terrible scar on his face? He must've got that fighting a monster. Shame, he'd be so handsome otherwise."

"I like the scar! He looks wonderfully dangerous. And I hain't never seen hair white like that before. Oh, what I would give to run my fingers through it!"

A woman with an infant hefted on her hip grinned at her neighbor. "Best keep your pretty daughter away from the inn, she looks positively dazzled. Don't want any mutant spawn in nine months!"

"You shush about my Sally! And anyways, everyone knows those mutants can't breed. That's why they steal babies and feed 'em poisons to change 'em. Nine out of ten die in the process. You better hold on tight to your Caleb!"

The inn saw more traffic than it had in years as people found excuses in an attempt to get a closer look at the witcher. Their efforts were fruitless, for the witcher had retired to his room upstairs.

"D'you think I'll have a chance to tell him about my husband?" Maria asked Owen, her speech slurred. She already had two empty tankards in front of her. She was young, but her prettiness was diminished by tiredness and anxiety and the reek of alcohol that haunted her breath.

Owen did not reply. He nervously drummed his fingers against the table, his own tankard barely touched. After caring for his horse, the witcher and Owen had haggled. Witchers never worked for free, and this particular man drove a hard bargain. Eighty gold pieces was the price for taking care of the werewolf. Eighty gold pieces could feed and clothe the entire village for a season! Still, it was twenty less than the hundred the villagers had managed to scrape together. And the villagers did not want to lose any more neighbors.

But when he had tried to direct the witcher's attention to the events of the past few months, the witcher had politely excused himself, citing a need for rest. Owen found this disturbing. Did the witcher not care for details? Was this stranger a _real_ witcher, a slayer of monsters? The golden eyes, double swords, wolf medallion and wicked scar seemed real enough, but Owen had never met a witcher before. How could he know that he wasn't being scammed?

The witcher had promised that the werewolf would be gone by the following morning. Owen certainly hoped so.

* * *

Far away, an elvish scholar unrolled a map of Cintra.

"Toluvienn? Please read me the coordinates again."

"Yes Mistress Seralla," her assistant said, then obediently repeated a series of numbers. Seralla's slim fingers danced over the map, then came to rest on a dot, marked by a set of runes.

 _Caledon_ , it read.

"Ah ha! This is where the portal will open. Alas, there is a human village in the way. We will have to wait for the next one, Toluvienn. No need to fret, the reverberations are becoming stronger and more frequent. It will not be long… "

The two elves bent back over their work.

* * *

As night fell, the villagers retreated to their homes, bolting their doors and sprinkling salt across thresholds. In his room, Geralt sat on a wobbly stool with a silver sword across his knees. He pulled on a worn and stained glove made of thick dragon hide. With his other hand, he uncorked a small brown bottle and allowed a few drops on the sword's surface. He carefully spread the cursed oil over the blade with his gloved hand. After a few moments, he held the blade up and examined it. Satisfied, he slipped it back in its scabbard.

Geralt removed the dragon hide glove and rewrapped it in a protective layer of more dragon hide. He stuffed it back in his traveler's pack, and then turned back to the small wooden chest resting on the floor beside him. Inside, packed tightly in compartments lined in dry grass, stood hundreds of small vials. He placed the small brown bottle among its companions, then selected two others. Geralt closed his eyes, whispered an incantation, and downed the contents of the vials, one after the other. He gestured toward the lone candle lighting up the room, and with a quick sign, extinguished the flame. The room plunged into darkness.

He sat back to wait for the potions to take effect, his mind wandering as he waited. Geralt had been a witcher for fifteen years. _Fifteen years_ , he thought, _of manticores, wyverns, foglers, chimeras, vampires, ghouls, strigas, vyppers, giant scorpions, harpies, basilisks…so many I have killed_. Some said that these monsters were being hunted to extinction. But as far as Geralt was concerned, he would work as long as people were willing to pay.

He thought of returning home. Back to Kaer Morhen, the witchers' stronghold. It was a cold, unwelcome place, where hundreds of boys have lost their lives in training. Where Geralt himself had endured the painful mutations that came with witcher training. Where he had found a family, of sorts. Home. Perhaps he should pay a visit soon.

He stood and strode to the window, his actions abnormally quick. His cat-like pupils dilated. Although the potion leeched colors and everything appeared grey, he could see as clearly as though it were day - even clearer, in fact. Geralt smiled wolfishly, ready for the hunt. He gathered all his equipment into his traveler's pack, fastened it around his body, and swung himself out the window. Behind him, the room looked so untouched that the next morning, the innkeeper would wonder if the witcher had stayed there at all.

He landed lightly, then jogged to the entrance of the inn. Owen's scent was easy to pick up; the man positively stank of werewolf.

Owen's home was not far from the village center. Geralt peered through a tiny window. There was no one inside. But the witcher's hearing, sharpened by the potions, could sense someone...something...breathing nearby. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He was being watched. _Where was it?_

A rustle. Geralt leapt aside as a dark shadow flashed by. It had been hiding on the roof! Geralt's right hand rose, fast as lightning, above his right shoulder while his left hand jerked the belt across his chest, making the sword hilt jump into his palm. He spun around, the silver blade flashing in a luminous arc, grazing the beast. The wound, though slight, hissed as the cursed oil worked its way into the flesh. The beast howled in pain.

In their huts, people huddled together in fear, knowing the witcher was at work.

The man and the beast circled each other.

"Greetings, Owen Stewart," Geralt whispered. The werewolf hesitated, confusion in its bloodshot eyes. The witcher lunged forward. The werewolf dodged at the last moment, then backed away, whimpering, its tail between its legs. Geralt almost felt sorry for the beast. He stepped forward, sword raised.

Another sound! Behind him?! It was pure reflex that saved him. Geralt spun in a half-circle to the right, inhumanly fast, his sword whistling through the air. The silver blade sliced cleanly through the throat of a second werewolf. A fountain of blood followed, then quickly subsided as the monster fell heavily to the ground. The momentum carried the Geralt to complete the circle, just in time for his blade to knock aside the first beast, its gaping mouth a tenth of a second away from closing on the witcher.

The werewolf snarled and scrambled to its feet. It stared in pure hatred at the man who had slain its companion.

"Was that your brother?" Geralt sneered. "Quite clever of the two of you, pretending that Richard had been slain-" Confusion once again clouded the werewolf's eyes, and it shook its head as though in pain. It raised a paw and attempted to claw itself, as though fighting an internal struggle. _Ah, so that's how it is,_ thought Geralt. He changed tactics, his voice becoming soft and gentle.

"Owen, you are a new werewolf, aren't you? Your human side still hasn't quite realized what you are. It must hurt. Being unable to control yourself, seeing the fear in your neighbors' eyes."

The werewolf whined.

"Would you like me to end it?"

The beast's bloodshot eyes suddenly looked very, very human. It laid on the ground, resigned to its fate.

As Geralt stepped forward, the ground beneath him suddenly disappeared. The werewolf bolted upright, but it slipped, its paws paddling comically. Geralt flailed in midair, but it was as though nothing around him was real. The world twisted strangely, and then his senses seemed to shut down. He couldn't see, hear, or feel anything. The only feeling he could register was cold. Penetrating cold. There was absolute nothingness.

Then suddenly he could feel again. Grass prickled the back of his neck. How had he ended up on the ground? He opened his eyes and raised his neck to look around. His view was partially obscured by a large plant. An unfamiliar courtyard, surrounded by high walls of pure white. He sniffed. Flowers, nighttime dew, and manicured lawn. Geralt sniffed again. No sign of the werewolf. Or at least he couldn't smell it.

He slowly climbed to his feet, and looked around in astonishment. A majestic white tower loomed before him.

Where the hell was he?

* * *

Please review! I am quite excited to be writing this story. Hope you enjoy!


	2. The White Tower

The white tower rose, tall and intimidating. Geralt looked at it with a critical eye. The incredible height, the polish of stone, the ornate arch of the windows, the impossible sweep of the roof. _Magic_ , he thought. The building was definitely constructed with magic. No, he did not want to fall to the mercy of sorcerers. He grunted and turned away.

He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and moved to the shadow of a large plant. Then he reached over his right shoulder to check on his weapons and swore quietly. His silver sword was missing. Thankfully the rest of his equipment – steel sword, crossbow, wolf medallion, and traveler's pack – were intact.

First order of business: find out his location. Maybe he could follow the stars. He glanced up at the night sky. A bolt of fear and dread shot through him – he didn't recognize a single constellation. Was this a dream? He pinched himself, hard. No, this was real. He clenched his teeth, and moved on.

The high white walls surrounding the courtyard were far too high to jump. Fifty paces away, there was a gate. And a gatehouse. He stopped in the shadow of the wall and cocked his head, listening to the muffled voices and quiet clinks of armor. _Four men_ , he estimated _. Well armed. Playing cards. And unfortunately, not drunk._

He had the element of surprise, but one to four was poor odds. And Geralt, despite his profession, disliked violence. He knocked on the door.

The voices stopped. Chairs scrapped across the floor. A stocky man with a swarthy complexion opened the door. He glared at Geralt irritably.

"What the hell do you want? Get that hood off, lemme see yer face... ARGH!"

The man jumped backwards in shock. Geralt smiled cruelly. He knew what he looked like. The potions that he had consumed to fight the werewolf made his face deadly pale and crossed with red, swollen blood vessels, and his strange yellow eyes had narrow pupils like a cat's.

But this was not a good time to scare others...especially when the others had their weapons drawn, pointing at him.

"Good evening, sirs," Geralt said calmly. He held his hands up, showing that he held no weapon.

The men did not relax. "Who are you and what is your business here?" a tall, dark-haired man asked tersely.

"My name is Geralt of Rivia. I am a lost traveler. I come in peace."

"D'you take us for bloody fools? Lost traveler, hrmph, more like bloody Shadowspawn," another man muttered.

Geralt kept his focus on the tall, dark-haired man. The man was wearing a black coat with a small silver sword pinned on the left lapel and a gold-and-red dragon on the right. There was an aura of intimidation about him, and Geralt noticed that the other men looked to him for leadership. His wolf medallion hummed, vibrating against his chest. There was magic in the room. This man was a sorceror, Geralt was sure of it.

"What is your occupation, Geralt of Rivia?" asked the man.

"I am a witcher."

Geralt saw the confusion on the men's faces and explained. "I kill monsters for a price."

"Are you a Borderlander, then? A man of the North?"

Geralt had no idea what a Borderlander was, but he nodded. "I am from the Northern Kingdoms, yes," he said carefully. These men did not look Nilfgaardian... or from any country Geralt had ever seen. Relief passed over the men's faces. The sorceror motioned for him to come in and sit down. Geralt ducked inside the guardhouse, finding a cramped room with a single table surrounded by crude benches. Playing cards were scattered about the table, and the shelves held the pieces of numerous board games. The smell of smoke permeated the small room. It was a place where men wiled away time.

The stocky man sighed. "A Borderlander, tha's why ye have so many scars," he said gruffly, and stuck out his hand. "I'm Huinn Mecandes. Pleased to make yer acquaintance." Geralt shook it and nodded.

"I'm Naeff," said the sorceror. He smiled at Geralt, but his expression was guarded.

The gawky young man introduced himself as Bran al'Seen. The fourth man, Harril, was older, dark-skinned, and carried himself with a warrior's grace. Geralt blinked in surprise as Harril's cloak shifted colors, shimmering in the candlelight.

The men settled down around the table. Huinn brought out a pipe. While he fumbled in his pockets for a match, Geralt reached over. "Let me help you out," he said, in what he hoped was a friendly tone. With a snap of his fingers, a small flame appeared and smoke began to wisp from the bowl.

The witcher noticed Naeff's hands clenched into fists. Internally, Geralt smirked. Magicians never liked it when non-magicians used magic.

Huinn looked at the smoking pipe, turning it slowly in his hands. "My, aren't you full of surprises, witcher? Thankee sir," he said. He took a drag from the pipe and sighed, smoke billowing from between his lips. "Ah, nothin' like good Two Rivers tabac. Want some?"

The pipe passed twice around the table before Naeff broke the silence.

"So, Geralt of Rivia, how did you end up at the White Tower?"

 _The White Tower...?_

"I was hired by the village of Caledon to hunt a werewolf- "

"Werewolf?" interrupted Naeff.

Geralt struggled to explain. "A werewolf is a man who has been cursed and turns into a wolf at night. Werewolves are usually insane and driven by a lust to kill humans."

The boy named Bran frowned. "A wolf-man? Not all of them are crazy. Lord Perrin is quite sane."

Geralt tried to hide his surprise. He had met - and slain - dozens of werewolves, and none had ever managed to control their bloodlust. And certainly none had been noblemen with their lycanthropy widely known.

Naeff noticed his discomfort. "Is something wrong?" the sorceror asked.

"No," Geralt said quickly. He did not want to speak poorly about a lord in a foreign land. Perhaps they were more tolerant here. He changed the subject and continued with his story. "I was fighting the werewolf when the ground seemed to open up under me. It was not an earthquake. There were no tremors. It looked like an enormous magic portal. I fell into the darkness...and then I found myself in this courtyard."

The sorceror leaned forward, eyes gleaming with interest. "A magic portal?"

"I didn't see how it opened, but I've traveled through a portal before and it felt the same way."

Naeff stood. "Show me where you appeared. Harril, come with me. Bran, Huinn, stay here," he commanded.

* * *

Geralt watched the sorceror examine the ground. He wondered if Naeff would be able to reopen the portal and send him back home. _I knew I shouldn't have taken this job_ , he thought to himself. _Should've headed straight to Kaer Morhen and retired_. A faint rectangular glow lit the ground. It was about ten paces across and six paces wide, Geralt estimated.

"It is reaching...somewhere very far," Naeff said faintly. He breathed heavily and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He swayed. "Too far...I need to sit down."

The wind changed direction and Geralt stiffened.

"What is it?" Harril asked.

"Werewolf," the witcher growled, reaching for his silver sword. His hand grasped thin air. _Shit. That's right, I lost it_. He drew his steel sword. Harril quickly drew his own weapon, watching him cautiously, but Geralt paid him no attention and instead turned his head to better catch the scent. It was coming from a large, palace-like building attached to the White Tower.

"What's the building over there?" he asked.

"Novice quarters," Harril answered. "Holds about two hundred girls in training... hey, wait!"

The witcher raced off. Naeff stood and tried to follow, but stumbled. Harril caught him.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Naeff mumbled, as he struggled to stand. "I'll alert the guard. You go keep an eye on that witcher."

Geralt's voice drifted back with the wind. "Don't alert the guard! They'll just be in the way and get themselves killed."

The two men looked at each other, and then Harril nodded. He took off running after the witcher, his color-shifting cloak blending into the night. Naeff began trudging wearily back towards the guardhouse.

* * *

He sped through the entrance hall, his cat-like eyes scanning the darkness and his nostrils flared for the scent of blood. _Two hundred girls_ , he thought. _Prime meat for a werewolf._

A slight noise. He slipped silently through slightly-opened double doors. It was a large room with benches and large tables, and it smelled faintly of food. A dining hall. To the side there was a door - must be the kitchen - and there was light. Muffled whispers.

The stink of werewolf grew stronger. Geralt hefted his steel sword.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Triss." The girl's voice quavered with worry.

A second female voice. "Hush. Come this way, sir. It is the back entrance. No one will see you leave."

The hairs on the back of Geralt's neck prickled as a Owen's voice answered. "I must hurry. Thank you miss."

Geralt tried to peek through the edge of the door, but could see nothing but brief flurries of movement. The door seemed unlocked, but he wanted the element of surprise on his side. He brought his foot up violently and kicked down the door.

He rushed in and saw a girl pushing Owen through another door. She turned and slammed it behind her, and then stood in front of with a determined look on her face. When she saw Geralt, her face paled, but she did not move. There were three other girls in the kitchen. They looked frightened, but to their credit, they did not scream or faint.

Geralt rolled his eyes, then sheathed his sword. He did not want to waste time talking. He strode over to the girl blocking the door. Or young woman. She looked to be in her late teens and had beautiful red hair, he noticed.

"Move," he said gruffly.

She sneered. "Make me...HEY! Get your hands off me!"

Geralt rolled his eyes again. He had, as gently as he could, pushed her aside. He yanked open the door.

It was a dark pantry. The musty smell of raw grain, onions, and herbs permeated the air, drowning out the scent of werewolf. Geralt headed towards the exit, a loading dock, where all the food was usually brought in, where Owen must have escaped.

There was motion behind him and he leapt aside instinctively. A small fireball flew past him. It hit a sack of grain, which burst into flame. Geralt spun around. "Idiot!" he cried out. The redhead's eyes widened and the second fireball in her hand faltered and died as she looked behind him, realizing her mistake too late.

"Run!" he yelled as he raced out of the room. The other girls scattered, but the red-haired girl stood frozen, watching as the fire spread, jumping easily in the dry environment. Geralt grabbed her arm, and pulled her after him. "NO!" she screamed. Geralt scooped her up around her waist as she tried to pull away. A weak stream of water spurted from between her palms, but did nothing against the roaring blaze.

"Let me down!" she screamed again. Geralt ignored her and carried her out of the building. He set her down, but when she attempted to run back, he forcibly restrained her.

In the distance, he heard cries of "Fire!" The other girls had raised an alarm, and women began streaming out of the building, all of them dressed in white. Geralt felt an eerie, terrifying sense of flashback as he remembered another place, long ago, where women wore white, and the buildings were burning...burning...

"Witcher? Witcher?!"

Geralt blinked, startled. Someone was calling for him?

He was only dimly aware of the young woman clinging to him and sobbing in his arms. He swayed, realizing that the effects of his witcher potions were running out and the aftereffects of extreme fatigue and drowsiness were settling in. There were crowds of women in the courtyard. Most were wearing white. Others, dressed in all different colors, had joined the original crowd, and they moved about, giving direction, comfort, and healing where needed. The smell of burning had not left the air, but the flames had died down. The Novices' building still stood, as most of it was made of stone, but a section of it looked severely damaged.

Harril materialized out of nowhere.

"There you are. Who's this young lady? Geralt, you look pale. Did you inhale too much smoke? Geralt? Hey, Naeff! Over here!"

Naeff looked as tired as Geralt felt. He was accompanied by a short, but stern-looking, woman. She carried herself regally, and her shoulders were draped with a rainbow stole. The witcher, sensing that this woman was in a position of leadership, struggled to rouse himself from his stupor.

The woman looked at the girl in Geralt's arms and exhaled impatiently.

"Triss! I should have known you would be involved in this somehow. Get ahold of yourself, girl. What happened?"

Triss jerked away from Geralt. "I d-didn't mean to do it, Mother," she said, hiccoughing through her sobs.

"What did you do?"

"He- " Triss pointed at Geralt. "He attacked me a-and I threw a f-fireball at him." She tossed her red hair and glared at him.

Despite the tears wetting her cheeks, there was a hard, crafty look in her eyes that Geralt did not like. He hissed. "I did not! You were helping a murderer get away!"

"A murderer?" The confusion on her face was infuriating. Geralt's temper snapped.

"Yes, a murderer! That man you helped? He has killed at least three or four innocents. You're lucky he didn't rip out your pretty little throat! You're a fucking idiot! And if I had known you would be so thankless, I would have left you there to burn- "

He suddenly felt dizzy and his knees buckled. He barely caught himself from falling. In an instant, the woman with the rainbow stole was standing in front of him. She peered up into his eyes. His medallion grew cold against his chest, and he felt a tingling sensation as she cast some sort of diagnostic spell on him. He shuddered.

"He's dead tired. And seems to be coming off of some stimulant. You, Asha'man, take care of him and help him get some rest. I will question him tomorrow morning after breakfast. Bring him to my office at eight."

"Yes, Amyrlin," Naeff saluted.

The woman turned to Triss. "And you, young lady, have some explaining to do."

Geralt felt Triss glaring at him, but he avoided looking at her. He did not resist as Naeff led him away.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please review.


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